


Sheetz

by Wisteria_Leigh



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Sheetz, The #1 Gas Station, but more importantly there will be MTO fried foods, oh also I guess there will be plots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-09-24 07:38:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17096549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisteria_Leigh/pseuds/Wisteria_Leigh
Summary: A series of very short stories concerning a healthy mixture of characters and circumstances, but only one place: a Sheetz gas station off I-81.





	1. V-eetz Card

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, a great God came down and spoke to me. And this great God bestowed upon me a great and terrible task. "Wisteria Leigh," it said, "you must craft a story, one that honors me." To which I bowed and said "yes, great God, I shall obey. But how can I possibly craft a story in your honor if I know not who you are?" The great God then appeared to me, in an array of neon green and violent red, smelling of gasoline and coffee and grease. And then the great God said "My child, I am the Lord of the [ Sheetz](https://www.sheetz.com/)."
> 
> So. Here we are.

“I must say, this is...shockingly sophisticated for a gas station food service,” Gansey noted, thumb of one hand tracing his lower lip while the forefinger of the other hovered above the Made-To-Order touch screen. “Touch to Order,” the screen demanded, in a garish typeface framed by obscenely unhealthy foods.

“I can't believe you've never been in one of these places before,” Ronan asked. He was doing a poor job of juggling barbecue chips, Doritos, and a Slim Jim, smile bright and sharp.

“I mean, surely I’ve been to a gas station and gotten food. Snacks and such. But I don’t think I’ve been to one...quite like this before.”

“Exactly why we had to take your V-card. Or, I guess, V-eetz Card.” 

Ronan wagged his eyebrows and snickered. Gansey flushed. “That was terrible, even by your standards,” he muttered.

“Whatever, old man. Order your shit or else I’ll pick your meal for you.”

Gansey sighed, going through the options once again.

It had been an exciting day: their first excavation of the 1136 Monmouth property, the start of their burning pile of crap and their pile of crap to keep. Ronan’s dark curls were still dusted with shavings of paint and cobwebs, Gansey’s shorts and crew T-shirt stained with dirt and grime. And after hours of hauling and stacking and arguing about which neglected furniture pieces were “vintage” and which were just crap, they were starving.

Gansey harbored an unrequited and borderline unsettling love for Henrietta, Virginia, but the one thing he would admit it lacked was good, quick food options.

“That pizza place downtown?” Ronan offered, laying in the concrete parking lot as their inaugural bonfire of rotten plywood collapsed into ashes.

“Nino’s? We’d be turned away at the door just by our smell,” Gansey sighed, lying beside him.

“McDonalds?”

“We had that earlier.”

“Sheetz?”

“Pardon?”

“Sheetz,” Ronan said, louder.

“What’s that?”

Ronan snapped upright at the waist, turning on Gansey. “You’ve lived in Virginia for _how long_ and you’ve never set foot in a _Sheetz_?!”

“Technically I grew up in Washington D.C., which, in terms of food options, is quite different--”

“No. I don’t want to hear excuses. Get your shit. We’re going to Sheetz.”

Gansey wasn’t fully convinced of Sheetz’s grandeur, as Ronan had described it. Thus far, their food selection left something to be desired: mostly just the slightest acknowledgement of nutrients and leafy greens. Although, he supposed a store that intentionally misspelled plurals with z’s and added h’s after every S probably wasn’t expected to be the pinnacle of healthy choices. The color scheme also gave him a migraine.

He settled on mozzarella sticks.

“Lame,” Ronan declared. He pressed a random combination of buttons on the screen. Gansey swatted his hand away, but not before a Totz platter with Dr. Pepper BBQ sauce, sour cream, and gas-station grade pulled pork was added to his order. He sighed. Ronan laughed.

“You ordered it, so you’re eating it,” Gansey told him, poking him square in the chest with the receipt.

“You can’t come to Sheetz and just get mozzarella sticks, man,” Ronan said through a mouthful of Doritos.

“Good God, Lynch. Manners, please.”

Ronan snorted. “Do you honestly think _this place,_ ” he gestured grandly to the toxic green and firetruck red decor, “gives a damn about _propriety_?”

Gansey’s brows arched high above his glasses. “Did you just used the word ‘propriety’?”

“I sure as hell did. I’m the second coming of Einstein.”

Gansey rolled his eyes. “One SAT word does not a genius make, Lynch.”

Ronan shoved Gansey’s shoulder. “What would you know? You couldn’t figure out the stupid touchscreen.”

Gansey frowned. “It’s not exactly intuitive,” he mumbled.

“It really is,” Ronan said. He held the Doritos bag above his head and let the crumbs waterfall into his orange-stained mouth.

“Atrocious,” Gansey remarked, not entirely unimpressed. The Made-To-Order workers called his number. The neon green bag smelled like grease and the promise of a stomach ache.  

They sat in one of the plastic booths of the dining area: a space no bigger than a hallway, partitioned by a tile half-wall and a mountain of cases of water and beer. They were the only ones dining in.

“These totz ain’t half-bad,” Ronan said. Gansey hummed in reply, pulling another fry from its wax pouch. Only Richard Campbell Gansey III could make eating gas station french fries look like he was dining with the King of France.

“When is you dad coming home?” he asked, brushing the salt from his fingers.

Ronan shrugged. “Dunno. Didn’t say.”

Gansey worried his bottom lip. “Isn’t Matthew’s birthday soon?”

“Soonish, yeah. He’ll be back before then. He always comes back before the important stuff.”

Gansey nodded. He tried one the tots.

“Good, right?” Ronan said.

Gansey grimaced. “I’m...very uncertain of that pork.”

“Oh, it’s definitely going to wreck your insides,” Ronan agreed, popping a chunk of the pork in his mouth and chasing it with a tater tot coated in sour cream. “But you only live once.”

“You only live once,” Gansey agreed, and took another piece. “You know, I think this place has a lot of character.”

“That’s a very diplomatic way of saying it’s a total shithole.”

“You said that exact same thing about Monmouth earlier.”

“I sure did, Dick.”

Gansey laughed. “Would you argue otherwise? For either?”

“No, because I don’t lie,” Ronan said. “But I think their shittiness is all part of the charm.”

“I can agree with that.”

Ronan’s phone buzzed. He touched the screen, and sauce smeared across the glass.  “Mom wants me home for dinner,” he announced.

“I’ll drop you off,” Gansey said. “More cleanup, same time tomorrow?”

“Same time tomorrow,” Ronan agreed, bumping fists with him. “It’ll be fit for a king in no time.”

“Chateau Monmouth,” Gansey said. “I like that.”

“Of course you would, nerd,” Ronan replied fondly.

They took the rest of the Totz to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts: the Sheetz in my current area of residence won Best Place to Work for Medium-Sized Businesses for the county. Take what you will from that information.


	2. 3 Months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gansey still wasn’t used to seeing Ronan with a buzzcut. Wasn’t use to seeing the deep furrow in his brow, or the harsh downturn of his mouth, or the striking ice blue of his eyes that meant he’d been crying.
> 
> He didn’t know if he’d ever truly get used to it. Any of it. 
> 
> Gansey continued sketching the layout of Aglionby on a flat piece of cardboard.
> 
> “You hungry?” Ronan said suddenly, scrubbing his cheeks with the back of his hand.

Ronan returned to Monmouth at 11pm, slapped another speeding ticket to his bedroom door, and slammed it shut behind him. The door shuddered in response; the tickets--four of them, now--rustled in agreement.

4 tickets in 3 months. If he were trying for a record, he was certainly close. Gansey wasn’t sure who’d ring first: a Guinness World Record adjudicator, or the police with a warrant out for Ronan’s arrest.

Actually, Gansey knew exactly who’d be ringing first: Declan. He expected a call tomorrow morning. The thought alone gave him a headache.

The cruel part of him hoped Declan would try a house call this time, and see for himself the spoils of war proudly mounted on the door. The Sensible Southern Gentleman part of him tutted at such base instincts, and reminded him that this was not his war.  

Gansey took off his glasses, tossed them on his bed from his seat at the desk, and scrubbed his tired eyes.

It may not be his war, but he was caught in No Man’s Land, and it was getting more difficult to dodge the bullets from either side. And when push came to shove--as it so often did between the Lynch brothers these days--Gansey wasn’t a neutral party; in the case of Declan v. Ronan, he would always side with Ronan.

But to be honest, he wasn’t even sure what the war  _was_ at this point. Declan was at war with Ronan. Ronan was at war with Declan, and himself, and his grief, and Death, and the _world._

Declan would claim victory only when Ronan was tranquilized, caged, subdued. As if he were a wild animal.

Gansey wasn’t sure when Ronan would consider himself the winner. Maybe when he stopped being able to feel.

Gansey sighed and pushed himself away from the desk. Thinking like that wouldn’t get anyone anywhere.

Instead, he rummaged through his school notes and Glendower notes to find the map of Henrietta he’d scanned at the library. If this was going to continue, then he needed a distraction. He had an idea.

 

######

 

Ronan emerged from his room at 2:34am.

Gansey glanced at the creaking door, watched as Ronan came quietly towards him. He sat in Gansey’s desk chair, hands clasped and elbows on his knees. His headphones were around his neck, whispering distant bass drops and electronic thrums. Through the large arm cut-outs of his muscle tank, Gansey saw the bandages stretched across his back, covering the black tendrils of his growing tattoo. 

Ganseys nodded at him, and turned back to his new project. Ronan didn’t look at Gansey. Didn’t say a word. Just sat in the chair, chewing at his lip.

It had been 3 months since Niall was found dead, since The Barns had been closed to the remaining Lynch family, since Ronan had moved into Monmouth. 3 months, and Gansey still wasn’t used to seeing Ronan with a buzzcut. Wasn’t use to seeing the deep furrow in his brow, or the harsh downturn of his mouth, or the striking ice blue of his eyes that meant he’d been crying.

He didn’t know if he’d ever truly get used to it. Any of it.  

Gansey continued sketching the layout of Aglionby on a flat piece of cardboard.

“You hungry?” Ronan said suddenly, scrubbing his cheeks with the back of his hand.  

Gansey turned, maybe too eagerly. “Famished,” he announced.

“Pizza?”

Gansey checked his phone. “Delivery stopped at midnight. How about the diner in Harrisonburg?”

Ronan’s knuckles turned white. He shook his head.

A landmine. Gansey made a mental note.

“Sheetz is open, I believe,” he said quickly. “It’s 24-hours, is it not?”

Ronan stood up and ripped off his headphones. “Let’s go.”

Gansey drove. Ronan stared out window, not saying a word. Gansey thought he heard him sniff a few times. Gansey knew to pretend he hadn't.

They ordered Totz and Wingz and Jalapeno Bites with 5 different sauces, mixed their own soda concoctions in XL cups, and sat in the same booth they’d used all those months ago in the empty dining area.  

“It pains me to say this,” Gansey announced, dipping a tater tot into a near-empty sauce cup, “but I think the Dr. Pepper Barbecue sauce is the best of these.”

“Fuck that,” Ronan replied. “That shit is like eating ass.”

Gansey almost choked on his bite.

“Buffalo all the way.” Ronan dunked a wing into the sauce and sucked the bone clean.

“Far too spicy,” Gansey said.

Ronan pointed the wing bone at him. “Wrong. You’re just too fucking vanilla.”

Gansey frowned. “Helen told me the same thing.”

“ _Helen_ said you were too vanilla? And what the fuck kind of ground does she have to stand on?”

“She said I was like grocery store vanilla: odd enough you think it’s special at first, but then it’s not.”

“What a bitch.”

“Don’t be crass, she’s my sister.”

Ronan raised a brow.

“I don’t disagree with you, though,” Gansey clarified.

Ronan huffed, almost a laugh.

Gansey smiled. Almost was enough for now.

“So, I was thinking,” he said, finishing off the barbecue with one last tater tot. “I’ve got a hunch about those caverns, not far from here. Luray? I might go this weekend.”

Ronan took a long sip from his soda. “Okay,” he said.

“If you want to join me, you’re welcome to.”

Ronan tapped his knuckles on the formica tabletop. “Only if you promise to not be fucking weird.”

“I don’t know if I can do that, given that your definition of ‘weird’ is quite...broad.”

“Just don’t act like you’re a goddamn 68 year old retiree on vacation with his fucking nephew.”

“That is a _remarkably_ specific request.”

“Well that’s exactly what you acted like on that fucking field trip last year.”

“I most certainly did not!”

“You played, like, twenty-fucking questions with every single museum docent you could find. I’m surprised they didn’t lifetime-fucking-ban you for that shit.”

“I’m curious!”

“No. You’re a fucking menace. Like a 68 year old retiree on vacation with his fucking nephew.”

Gansey pouted. “I’ve been told I have an old soul,” he replied.

“By who? Helen?”

“No. My mom.”

Ronan shook his head with a snort. “I change my mind. Helen was right.”

Gansey threw a jalapeno popper at him. Ronan caught it in his mouth, and flipped him off.

The sun was beginning to rise over the mountains. Gansey knew Ronan’s war was far from over. But mornings like these were small victories. And he was confident one day they could win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am steadfast in my belief that Sheetz is best after 9pm. It's like their food loses flavor in sunlight.
> 
> Also: Merry Christmas!


	3. Camelot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No. We...are going to Sheetz.”
> 
> Adam paused. “Like, the gas station?”
> 
> “Yes! You know it?”
> 
> Adam sighed and fell back into his seat. “Of course I do, Gansey. It’s _Sheetz_.”

“Adam, there’s somewhere we have to go,” Gansey said, appearing suddenly beside Adam at his locker. “You don’t have work tonight, correct?”

Adam exchanged his books, barely removing his hand before Ronan slammed the door shut with a razor sharp grin. Adam glared. “No. What is it? Something with the dead king?”

“It’s Glendower. And no, nothing with him. We have somewhere you need to... _ experience. _ ”

Adam had only recently become friends with the great Richard Campbell Gansey III, but in the short time he’d been introduced to his court, he had learned that saying “no” to Gansey was an uncomfortable task. So no matter his suspicions, unless he had work or a stricter curfew than normal, Adam agreed. “I have to be home by 9.”

“Lame,” Ronan snorted, earning himself another pointed look.

“Perfectly fine,” Gansey corrected, his politician’s smile on full display. “Excelsior, my friends!”

Noah materialized beside them at the Pig, always so quiet in his movements that Adam often didn’t realize he’d been behind them once he appeared. He slipped into the back with Adam, Gansey taking the throne at the wheel and Ronan throwing himself into his prized seat beside him. 

“So where are we going?” Adam asked, nearly shouting to be heard over the igniting roar of the Pig.

“A place of wonder, Parrish.”

“Which is…?”

“All will be revealed in due time.”

He turned out of the parking lot, waving to a flock of his crew teammates as the the camaro plodded into the street.

“It’s not that big of a fucking deal, Dick,” Ronan said.

“It’s a rite of passage. A mandatory feast.”

Feast? “I only have a few dollars on me,” Adam said.

“Oh, no, not that sort of feast. More of a, a, a breaking of bread together. Like the disciples. Or the Knights of the Round Table.”

“Better be the latter,” Ronan grumbled.

“Tonight, we shall dine on greasy delicacies like men!”

“Are we just going to Nino’s again?” Adam said.

“No. We...are going to Sheetz.”

Adam paused. “Like, the gas station?”

“Yes! You know it?”

Adam sighed and fell back into his seat. “Of course I do, Gansey. It’s  _ Sheetz. _ ”

“Well  _ I  _ didn’t know what it was,” Gansey huffed.

“Of course you didn’t.”  _ Because you grew up having people fill your gas tank for you, cooking organic meals for you with all the food groups and plenty of leftovers. Because you don’t know what hunger is like. What only being able to afford 3 gallons of gas and a candy bar is like.  _ “You didn’t grow up here.”

“This won’t be much of a surprise then, I’m afraid.”

“Now we can all see where Parrish buys his groceries,” Ronan sniped

Adam rolled his eyes. Noah, at least, looked sympathetic.

“They don’t sell produce at Sheetz, Adam,” Gansey said, sparing a glance into the rearview mirror.

Adam rubbed his temples. “Lynch was kidding,” he sighed.

“Yeah. Obviously Parrish gets his groceries from fucking Wal-Mart.”

Adam kicked the back of his seat. Ronan laughed.

“Does Wal-Mart have groceries?” Gansey asked, completely sincere. “Fresh produce and the like?”

“Yes? Haven’t you ever...fucking hell and a fucking  _ half,  _ Dick, you haven’t been to Wal-Mart!” Ronan punched his shoulder. “Oh man, we gotta go.”

“It’s really not that exciting,” Adam said.

“Oh, it really is.”

“Is it like Target?” Gansey asked.

“Yes,” Adam said, at the same time Ronan said, “Not one fucking bit.”

“Same basic principle,” Adam argued.

“But it’s all about the  _ people, _ Parrish,” Ronan countered, putting on his best approximation of an Oxford scholar. “It’s the people who make the fucking place.”

Adam rolled his eyes.

Gansey ran his thumb along his lip. “I was under the impression Wal-Mart was for,” he glanced back at Adam, tense and staring pointedly out the window, “more of the local clientele.”

Adam swallowed shame like it was lava.

“Fuck, Dick, just say  _ poor people.” _

“That wasn’t--”

“Yes it fuckin was.”

“I go to Wal-Mart all the time,” Noah said.

“Where do you think I get my fuckin’ snacks from? Kroger?” Ronan continued.

“Well, yes. Since it is a food store,” Gansey said.

“No, Dick. I’d rather shoot myself in the face with a fucking nail gun than deal with that bougie hellhole.”

“That’s--”

“And Wal-Mart has sales on chips literally every fucking day.”

“Okay--”

“And cheap as fuck DVDs.”

“Oh, and they have fun socks!” Noah said. “I got a bunch that said ‘Taco Tuesday’ on them last time we went.”

“And if you go after midnight, shit gets  _ weird.  _ I once saw a dude shoot up in the home goods section while his friend climbed into the giant rubber ball bin. Fucking  _ nuts. _

“Didn’t we see a girl trying a demonic ritual with electric candles, cat litter, and duct tape, once?”

“Oh yeah. That was fucking wild.”

“Why were you there after midnight?” Gansey broke in, suddenly.

Ronan and Noah looked at one another. “Um. Research?”

Gansey sighed.

Adam sagged back into his seat.  

The camaro roared into the parking lot, depositing the boys and their king and settling into the parking spot for a much-needed nap. Gansey patted its hood and led them inside.

While Adam had been to Sheetz within the past month, Noah clearly hadn’t been in years. At least now Gansey could impress  _ someone. _

“What is  _ this?” _ Noah exclaimed, pale eyes wide with wonder standing before a blue and white contraption with “F’real” curving along the top.

“Uh, a milkshake machine?” Ronan said.

Noah made a strangled squeak. “Milkshake machine?”

“Yeah. Jesus, calm down, it’s not like it’s the fucking Hope Diamond.”

“You’re right. It’s  _ better _ .”

“Jesus fuck, Czerny” Ronan muttered.

“Parrish, any recommendations from the Made-To-Order?” Gansey said, standing in front of the screen, one arm behind his back like he was surveying his future kingdom as the crown prince.

Adam shrugged. “I just get french fries.”

Gansey nodded sagely. “Simple, yet a staple. Thank you.” He gave him an odd sort of smile. Almost apologetic. Making amends for earlier, maybe. Adam smiled back with a nod. Forgiven. Gansey’s shoulders sagged with relief.

Adam had saved up a few extra dollars, enough to get a slushie and a bag of chips and a few cents back in change. Gansey and Ronan paid first, black credit cards light between their fingers. They slid them absentmindedly through the reader, didn’t even look at the screen, couldn’t recite their order totals if their lives depended on it.

Adam hated that his life did depend on it.

He stepped up to the register, his four dollars ready. And then he froze.

“Well I’ll be,”  the cashier exclaimed. “If it ain’t Adam Parrish.”

Adam swallowed. Swallowed again. “Hi, Tyler,” he said.

“Been a while, I reckon.”

“Yeah, been a while.”

His accent tried to slither out of his throat, pulling at his tongue and stretching his vowels in ways they weren’t supposed to. He choked it back down, and put his stuff on the counter.

“How’ve you been?” Tyler said. “My old man was just tellin me ‘bout seein you down at Boyd’s. Your total is $3.78.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I work there some evenings.”

“Well if y’all ever need an extra set of hands, I’ve got some time I can spare the old man, if he’s wantin it.”

“I’ll let him know.”

Ronan and Gansey were staring now, waiting at the end of the queue for him. He could feel their eyes: Ronan’s ice-blue glare of disgust, Gansey’s harsh assessment of his worth. Hot shame burned the back of his neck, like a rash.

“How that’s new school treatin you?” Tyler asked. Adam watched him follow the Aglionby tie to the insignia on the sweater as he counted out change. Adam hadn’t missed the slight twist of his lip when he said the name. As if he’d swallowed something foul.

“It’s alright. It’s school,” Adam replied. Diplomatic. Not  _ I love it so much,  _ not  _ it’s so much better than Mountainview, _ not  _ in two years I’ll be out, going somewhere way better than this.  _

He knew what saying that sort of thing got him. Snarls. Glares. Bruises hidden beneath his sweater.  

Tyler barked out a laugh as he handed Adam the coins. “Yeah, sounds about right. Alright. Good seein you, Parrish. Give your old man a shout for me, will you? Haven’t seen him in a bit.”

“Sure, yeah. Good seeing you, Tyler.”

Adam turned from the register, and walked swiftly between Gansey and Ronan to the tables.

“Someone you know?” Gansey asked, hurrying after him.

“Yeah,” Adam grunted.

Gansey didn’t push further. For that, Adam was thankful.

The night went on as if it had never happened. Noah slurped his milkshake loudly, Ronan talked with his mouth full of Buffalo sauce, and Gansey ate his fries with the delicacy of a king.

It wasn’t  _ normal _ . Not just yet. Their friendship was still new, slowly finding the cracks in Adam’s walls and bedrock, finding its root in common ground with good soil. Gansey was a force of nature, but even his effortless charm could only chip away so much so fast. But it was getting there.

And maybe a new sense of normalcy would do Adam some good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stopped at the Sheetz in Harrisonburg last time I traveled up I-81, because _research_. Also I needed gas. And water. And coffee. And I had to pee. But let's pretend it was only that first reason.


	4. Jane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, they stood in front of this “Extraordinary rite-of-passage”, Gansey’s smiling and gesturing like he discovered the holy grail reincarnated in this gas station.
> 
> “He thinks this is a big deal,” Adam said softly, standing beside her.
> 
> “Clearly,” Blue snorted. “Does he not know how many of these damn places they are?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so dumb but I needed an intro for Blue so here we are!!!!!!!!!!!!

“ _ This  _ is the big surprise,” Blue said with obvious and scathing disappointment. “Sheetz?” 

Gansey nodded vigorously. He’d perfected his “ceremonial feast” speech since he last delivered it to Adam, and had spent the car ride from Mary’s Rock waxing poetic about Arthurian Knights and Camelot feasts and breaking bread with one’s brothers-in-arms.

“Or sisters-in-arms. Or...whoever-in-arms,” Blue corrected from the back seat, arms crossed and glaring at the driver’s seat.

“Well, actually, in Arthurian tradition it would have been solely men at the table, given that knightship was often only bestowed upon men--”

Adam cleared his throat. Gansey glanced into the rearview mirror and startled at Blue’s arch brow and challenging glare. He coughed. “Yes. Of course. Certainly now it can be...whomever.”

Blue rolled her eyes.

And now, they stood in front of this “Extraordinary rite-of-passage”, Gansey’s smiling and gesturing like he discovered the holy grail reincarnated in this gas station.

“He thinks this is a big deal,” Adam said softly, standing beside her.

“Clearly,” Blue snorted. “Does he not know how many of these damn places they are?”

“We tried explainin’ to him, but…”

“Got all Gansey on you?”

Adam sighed. “Exactly.”

“You losers coming or not?” Ronan hollered from the doorway.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re coming, snake,” Blue spat back. Ronan snarled at the name, but held the door for them anyways.

“Jane, come order from this machine!” Gansey exclaimed.

Blue looked at Adam. He could only shrug. “You get used to it.”

She huffed and shoved her hands into the pockets of her quilted skirt, but allowed herself to be beckoned to the Made-To-Order machine.

“Isn’t this fascinating?” Gansey said, eyes bright behind his square-frame glasses. “They misspell everything on purpose!”

“Wow. You should write to their marketing department about it.” Blue made a point to not look at Gansey, and flipped through the menu as if she’d been here hundreds of times before (because she had.)  

“You really think I should? Or, I suppose I could just speak with the manager. Tell them I think their marketing department deserves high praise.”

Before Gansey could even press a button, Blue had her receipt in hand. “Yep, you should definitely do that. Are you gonna order or not?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Blue rolled her eyes, and left to go pay.

Adam and Ronan emerged from the chip aisle, Ronan with an armful of pork rinds and barbeque chips, Adam with one small bag of salt & vinegar. They stood behind Blue in line.

“What’d you get?” Adam asked.

“Mac ‘n cheese bites.”

“Good choice.”

Ronan snorted, and dumped a quarter of a bag of chips into his mouth.

“Really?” Blue snapped. And Ronan smiled with half-eaten chips between his teeth. Her lip curled in disgust.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Adam muttered to Ronan. 

"Don't be an asshole," Ronan mocked, and shoved another handful into his already-full mouth.

They pay, Adam finding solace in Blue’s use of pocket change and how her gaze narrowed when Gansey and Ronan slid their credit cards through the machine without a second thought.

“Raven Boys,” she grumbled.

“Hey, reckon we ain’t all bad,” Adam said.

Blue measured his words carefully. “Yeah, I reckon not,” she replied, smile soft and genuine and meant only for him. Her expression turned stony once more when Ronan and Gansey joined them.

“A toast, if I may,” Gansey declared, raising his AriZona Tea. “To the formal induction of Ms. Blue Sargent, henceforth known as ‘Jane’, to our merry band of men! Or, uh...men and woman!”

“You can just say ‘people’,” Blue sighed. “Merry band of  _ people _ .”

“Well, yes, of course. But that just doesn't have quite the same ring to it, I’m afraid, and--”

“Excuse me?” Blue hissed.

Adam dragged a hand down his face. Ronan rolled his eyes with an exaggerated groan. “What the fuck ever, we got food, we got a Maggot.  _ Great.  _ Woohoo. Can we just fucking eat?”

“Right. Yes,” Gansey murmured, clearing his throat and loosening the collar of his polo. “To Jane.”

Adam raised a chip, Ronan a pork rind, and Blue a fried Mac ‘n Cheese bite. “To Jane.”

They ate in unison.

“Now, how do we feel about taking our feast on the road?” Gansey said, leading them back to his trusty orange steed. “There’s another spot I’d like to check before we head back.”


	5. Both Sides Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Robert Parrish, guilty._
> 
> _Adam Parrish, free._
> 
> It was only 1 in the afternoon, and Adam already felt like he’d lived through 27 lifetimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS is the chapter I envisioned when I started this hilarious gas station ode nonsense. I've had it written for MONTHS. 
> 
> Title is [this Joni Mitchell song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCnf46boC3I). Listen, enjoy, and wallow in melancholy for the next 17 hours of your life.

_Robert Parrish, guilty._

_Adam Parrish, free._

It was only 1 in the afternoon, but Adam felt like he’d lived through 27 lifetimes.

Now that Gansey and Ronan knew where he’d been, there was no reason to hide all day. Aglionby had excused him for the full day off, and Adam considered going in anyways, after the trial. Not because he was worried about grades, or missed assignments; he’d learned, a long time ago, to never put himself in a position where one day missed would ruin his academics.

No, Adam would have gone to school for the distraction. For the routine of it all. Aglionby was a means to an end for him, not necessarily a place he _enjoyed,_ but the ritual of bell tolls, chalkboard lessons, locker clangs, and campus walks was its own kind of comfort: constant, and consistent.

But when he got in the Hodoyota at the courthouse, after saying goodbye to Ronan and Gansey, he didn’t drive himself to school as he intended. He drove himself to St. Agnes. And for a long time he just sat in the parking lot, until a worried priest came and knocked on the driver’s side window to make sure he wasn’t a lurker. 

Maybe he could distract himself with homework. There was plenty sitting in his bookbag. He had a statistics test the following week, fifty pages of _Beowulf_ to read, a physics lab to finish, latin verbs to conjugate: all he needed was to sit at the desk and work through Pascal’s Triangle, or pick apart kennings in _Beowulf._ Easy.

But it wasn’t. Because he couldn’t _think_ anymore. He could see the questions in front of him, could read the words on the page, but couldn’t wrap his head around what they were asking. What they wanted him to solve. What this damn ancient poet was even trying to _say_ in these lines.

He sat at the desk for half an hour. One hour. Two hours. Pencil tapping the paper, but nothing coming to fruition.

His left ear was ringing. Like it had when it first happened. A reminder. As if it knew what had happened today.

_Adam Parrish, free._

He should feel relieved. Should feel _ecstatic._ This was all he wanted, after all.

Instead, he felt empty. Like everything in him had been dumped onto the courtroom floor. He couldn’t feel happy, or sad, or angry. He couldn’t feel much at all right now. Only exhaustion. Unrelenting tiredness. The sort that no nap or even hours of sleep would fix.

Tires squealed in the parking lot. Adam looked. The BMW idled in the empty lot.

He abandoned his homework, grabbed his keys and jacket, and went downstairs.

He slipped into the passenger’s seat, closing the door gently behind him. EDM thumped through the speakers. A familiar beat, one of Ronan’s favorites. The one he played whenever he and Adam went for a drive, windows down on I-81 in the dense heat of summer nights, Ronan smiling with adrenaline and joy as he moved through gearshifts like an artist curving their brush along a canvas.

Ronan chewed on his leather bands, one hand waiting on the wheel and the other propped by his elbow on the window ledge. He had long since wretched his tie loose, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

An odd sort of heat pooled in Adam’s stomach. He swallowed it, and turned his gaze to the church parking lot.

“I’m fucking starving,” Ronan said, dropping his forearm from his mouth. He turned to Adam. “You wanna eat?”

“Sure,” Adam said with a half-hearted shrug.

Ronan watched him for a moment, brow furrowed into something more than just a scowl. Adam ran his fingers along the shell of his deaf ear, watching the dark clouds gathering along the horizon.  

He was so, so tired.

Ronan flung the BMW into gear and sped out of the parking lot.

The Sheetz was nearly empty. Adam got a single order of fries, paid for with quarters he’d been hoarding. He slid silently into the passenger’s seat of the BMW. Thunder rolled over the mountains.

Ronan threw himself into the driver’s seat, cup full of Blue Raspberry Freeze in one hand and grease-soaked bag clenched between his teeth. He plunked the drink in Adam’s lap, ignoring the gasp of surprise.

“Got it for free, so don’t give me shit,” Ronan said. “Gas points.”

“You have a Sheetz card,” Adam said flatly. “Your inheritance is a million dollars and you can pull anything you want out of your head, and yet you have a rewards card to save _3 cents_ on _gasoline_ for your dream car that _doesn’t even need it._ ”

“It’s 3mil, actually.”

“You don’t need the gas!”

“Yeah, but I like the free shit. Capitalism's a bitch, am I fucking right?”

Adam snorted, and shook his head. “I can’t believe you.”

“Surprised this was the breaking point. Not the fucking three-eyed demon birds or the dreamed-up mom; no, Adam Fucking Parrish can _get_ all that shit, but the fact that I, a millionaire, have a fucking rewards card? Blowing his fucking mind.” He took a sloppy bite out of his cheesesteak sub. “Are you gonna drink that or what?”

Adam rolled his eyes, and slurped down the Freeze.

They didn't stay in the parking lot. Ronan drove, drifting down switchback roads and flying up mountainside freeways. Adam ate his fries and licked the salt from his fingers. Ronan’s attention drifted to him, only briefly, before the road curved once again.

They reached the mountain’s peak. Trees swayed dangerously in the growing winds. Bloated thunderheads stretched across the sky.

Ronan skidded and parked at an overlook. Before them, the valley stretched for miles until it disappeared into a sheet of rain. Lightning flickered above them.

Ronan ate his cheesesteak.

Adam sat silently, fingers tracing the shell of his ear, watching the storm engulf the valley below them. A fork of lightning struck a tree with a flash, a crack, and a brief spark before rain extinguished the flames.  

The storm descended with a ceremonial roll of thunder. Rain splattered across the windshield in a roar of white noise. Ronan turned the music down, a steady hum beneath the uneven beat of heavy droplets and rumbling thunder.

They sat in silence while the world heaved and raged around them. Bellowing cries, pounding fists, lashing and howling and crying. But Adam was safe, and warm, and dry.

_Adam Parrish, free._

Adam blinked, and a tear tumble down his cheek. He scrubbed it away with a sniff. Ronan looked away. No, he didn’t look away, Adam realized; he was looking for something. A pen, apparently. Two pens. One red, one black. He flattened out his Sheetz bag, and drew a grid of dots. Then he drew a line, and handed the bag and the red pen to Adam.

Despite himself, Adam felt a laugh bubble out of his chest. He drew a line as well, and handed the game back to Ronan.

Rain washed over the car. Thunder cracked and shook the world.

They passed the bag back and forth until the grid was full of boxes. Adam counted the squares. Ronan won by two. He gave a triumphant shout that made Adam smile and roll his eyes.

“Rematch?” he said, softer. Adam nodded, and was gifted the smile Ronan reserved for Matthew, baby animals, and, increasingly, him.

Warmth flickered in him. He didn’t bother dousing it this time.

They stayed at the overlook until the sun set and the storm moved on, long after Adam’s drink had melted and they’d run out of space on the bag.

And by the time Ronan dropped Adam back at St. Agnes, he was a little more awake.

**Author's Note:**

> This is 18927% self-indulgent because I fucking love Sheetz. There is no posting schedule. There is only sometimes vaguely a plan. I write when and what the Sheetz God commands me. Do with this what you will.


End file.
